


Green Grow the Rushes, O

by MajaLi



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Ficlet, M/M, Meet-Cute, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 06:55:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6274270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajaLi/pseuds/MajaLi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bro. <i>Bro!</i> It’s <i>Saint Patrick’s Day</i> and <i>your name is Patrick</i>, how <i>awesome</i> is that?!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Grow the Rushes, O

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [these](https://twitter.com/OnlyInBOS/status/710416676303470592) [tweets](https://twitter.com/CoffeeKristin/status/710435723489447936). Thanks to the lovely and wise [Peculiaritea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KarinBerry/pseuds/Peculiaritea) and [AbschaumNo1](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AbschaumNo1/pseuds/AbschaumNo1) for the betas, and to [CoffeeKristin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeKristin/pseuds/CoffeeKristin) for the bunny!

“Hey. You should put The Sign out today.”

Jonny turns from where he’s trimming green-dyed carnations and calla lilies and frowns at Brent.   It’s six a.m. and too early for this.

“Valentine’s Day was literally last month.” He brandishes the clippers at his assistant manager, but Brent isn’t put off.

“I keep telling you, that’s the worst day for it,” Brent insists, playing his hose over the rows of miniature potted clover with more vigor than is strictly necessary. “What self-respecting single dude is going to walk into a hippie flower boutique on Valentine’s Day to get a free rose for himself?”

“The kind of self-respecting single dude who’d want to be bonded to the guy who _owns_ the hippie flower boutique?”

Brent flaps his hand – fortunately not the one holding the hose – and huffs. “That’s the kind of narrow-minded thinking that leads to desperate people wearing naming pins everywhere and asking to see your soulmark before they even say hello.” He points sternly at Jonny. “I’m going to get breakfast. Put The Sign out, Jon.”

By the time Brent gets back, Jonny has settled the carnations in their large, plastic floor tubs and has moved on to de-thorning the extra roses they’ll need for this little stunt. He’s dragged The Sign out from under its drop cloth in the back of the greenhouse and parked it on the sidewalk outside the shop, even doodled a little shamrock in the corner, in the spirit of the day. Brent is beaming when he shoulders open the door, tossing a paper bag at Jonny and setting down the tray of coffees in his other hand.

“I have a good feeling about today,” he says, patting Jonny on the shoulder.

“You have a good feeling about every day we do this,” Jonny grumbles. Brent’s grin turns even more blinding.

“And one day I’ll be right, Jon,” he says, tapping the side of his nose. “One day I’ll be right.”

\-- -- --

“Bro. _Bro!_ ” Jonny winces internally as the shouts outside momentarily drown out the clamor of customers filling his shop. “It’s _Saint Patrick’s Day_ and _your name is Patrick_ , how _awesome_ is that?! Oh my god!” Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a hint of arms flailing, and something green and springy bouncing on the end of a stick. “You should totally go get a free flower! Because your _name_ is _Patrick_ , bro!”

Jonny glances at the ID that’s just been handed to him by the guy at the counter, who’s grinning at him through a pair of lime green shutter shades.

“This says Paul.”

“Aw, c’mon, isn’t it close enough?” Shutter shades guy wheedles.

Jonny rolls his eyes and hands him a green carnation. “Sure, close enough.”

Shutter shades guy whoops, drops a fiver in the tip jar, and parades proudly through the crowd with his prize. In his wake, a short, surprisingly stacked guy stumbles out of the press and flops across Jonny’s counter with a winded grunt.

“Hey bro!” he says happily, blinking bright blue eyes up at Jonny through a disaster of blond…Jonny thinks they’re curls, at least from how they’re all tangled together at the nape of his neck and falling over his forehead, but the rest have been so aggressively slicked back that Jonny’s really not sure what to make of them.

“Can I help you, sir?” When in doubt, retreat into bland professionalism. The blond guy straightens and points proudly to his shirt, a grand gesture with both thumbs slightly off-kilter. The shirt is an eye-burning shade of green, with an Irish flag stamped on the front and over it, in green glitter letters, the slogan _I AIN’T NO SAINT_. Jonny can’t help the smirk that creeps up the side of his mouth.

“So…your name’s not Patrick then?” he teases.

“Whaaaaaat?” Obviously-Patrick looks crestfallen that Jonny didn’t get his joke. “No, bro, my name _is_ Patrick!”

“But your shirt says – ”

“Brooooooo,” Patrick wheedles, flopping dramatically across the counter again. “Can I please have my free rose? I got ID, if you need, I promise…”

Jonny bites his lip to keep from laughing. “No ID, I believe you.” He reaches behind him and plucks one of the nicer roses from the basin behind him, wrapping it quickly in recycled paper stamped with the shop’s logo before tying a bright green bow around the whole thing and handing it over.

“Happy Saint Patrick’s Day,” he says, but Patrick is staring fixedly at his wrist, a flush creeping up his neck and deepening on his cheeks. Slowly, like he thinks Jonny will startle if he moves to quickly, he reaches out and catches Jonny’s hand, pulling it away from the rose and turning it palm up so that Jonny’s rather brazen soulmark is on display. He runs his thumb over the looping script without even asking, like he’s traced the letters a thousand times before.

“Is,” he says thickly, and licks his lips. “Is that why – ?”

“Yes,” Jonny admits, “but really, I’m not expecting anything.”

Patrick nods and steps back, leaving the rose hanging in Jonny’s hand. He turns around, cups his hands around his mouth, and bellows, “ _Store’s closing, everybody out!_ ”

“Hey!” Jonny protests, but no one is listening to him. In surprisingly short order, the shop is emptied and Patrick is closing the door firmly behind the last of the groaning crowd. Jonny lays the rose aside and wipes his suddenly sweaty hands on his apron.

“Is there a reason you just kicked out a bunch of paying customers?”

“They weren’t paying, they were just after your free goodies,” Patrick sniffs, strutting back to the counter. He hesitates briefly before stepping around the side, crowding Jonny back against the rows of roses and carnations and calla lilies. “Not that that’s…uh…necessarily a bad thing. It could be justified, even. In certain cases.”

Jonny folds his arms over his chest, heartbeat ticking up to a gallop.

“Cases like…?”

He’s close enough to stare at the bob of Patrick’s Adam’s apple as he swallows, and is surprised as the urge to graze his teeth against it washes over him. Jonny’s never been much of a biter, but…he could learn, he thinks.

“Like maybe cases where you’re running the cutest bond-seeking gimmick ever, and your nametag says ‘Jonny’ with no ‘h,’ which, really? You had to take the most common name on the planet and make it all special snowflake and sentence me to a lifetime of asking random dudes in bars exactly how they spell their name?”

Jonny huffs softly and curls his hand around Patrick’s hip, thumb pressing perfectly into the divot of his hipbone, through his shorts. “Why were there random dudes in bars? I’m- I’m objecting to that, right now, there should be no more random dudes in bars. Ever.”

“Well, if you have a better way of finding the kind of guy who’d sign his name on my _ass_ …” Patrick waggles his eyebrows, leering exaggeratedly until Jonny laughs. “Come on, don’t you at least want to check? What if I’m lying just to lure you into my bed?”

“Mmmm, no luring necessary,” Jonny hums. He pinches Patrick’s hip gently, just hard enough to make him squeak and crowd closer, hands coming up to Jonny’s shoulders. That touch does it, pushes Jonny over the edge into the nerve to tip Patrick’s chin up and press a kiss to his parted lips. He tastes like beer, mostly, and some kind of spicy cinnamon gum. Not that Jonny’s complaining; a few years ago, he started taking his coffee with cinnamon, and now he finally knows why. When he pulls back, Patrick blinks twice, slow and lazy, and then smiles wide, making dimples at the corners of his mouth that Jonny wants to kiss again and again.

“More,” he demands, and drags Jonny back in.

Well. Jonny does still need to see that soulmark, after all.


End file.
